I am old now and the moon wanes
As the winter settles on the weather vanes,
This moment at the back end of my days
Of the gutter and the passageways,
I’ve seen it all, the crumbling street
The dead leaves fall about my feet,
The glories of my life unfurled
Are but the silent horrors of the world.
In the gathering gloom I press my hands
And hope that someone understands,
The sorrow and the darkening sky
Of grief and the muffled cry.
The evening creeps and holds itself
A hostage of the coming night,
Cradles in its arms and starts to sleep.
Waking up to dreams it breaths, it’s lungs
Bear witness to the gift of tongues.
I hear a voice, distant voices and the sound of rumbling.
“Remember child, that the ways of youth are wild
Do not hesitate nor twist your fate
On promises that may never pass
Nor lose that time that you must win,
It will not pass again”.
She smiles, her wrinkled face
Like paper crepes run highways
From her eyes,
She has no smell as if the memories
Had been washed away.
I think of the old days
Of perfume and cologne.
I am alone.
I imagine trees of feathered boughs
Lined with wings of dead sparrows
I see deaths birth and what it farrows.
And even now, I think of the coming light
To ward against the deadening night,
Dream of the warmth and of the rose,
Of slumber and the long repose.